


Even If It's Razor-Deep

by IncineraryPeriphery



Series: Meet Me in the Woods Tonight [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Child Harry Potter, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Gen, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Mental Link
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22284733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncineraryPeriphery/pseuds/IncineraryPeriphery
Summary: “You're going to try to kill me outside of the dreams, too.” He says.Voldemort doesn't answer. It's all the answer he needs.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Meet Me in the Woods Tonight [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564282
Comments: 7
Kudos: 90





	Even If It's Razor-Deep

Harry's in his cupboard again.

It's a little disorienting, considering the last thing he remembers is working on his potion's essay in the common room, but its not a bad cupboard.

He's already long used to the stuffy feeling in his lungs and the darkness pressing down on him, wrapping around him better than his school robes do. It's almost a relief to be here again, his back pressing against the wall and an arm wrapping around his knees. He's younger, hands too small and Dudley's clothes too big, fitting comfortably where he knows he can't anymore. The odd realization that this must be how Voldemort feels, trapped inside the shifting expanse of dream logic, comes after a few long, silent moments.

Harry waits several more, perched at the head of his cot, but nothing shifts. Nothing moves and flashes like they usually do inside his own dreams.

He stands, stumbling to the door with none of his limbs the right length. It gives easily, creaking open, but the hallway outside is ominously silent. None of the lights are on and the moonlight shining through the curtains is barely enough to navigate by. Harry quietly makes his way up the stairs, peering around the edge of the wall and finding that none of the bedroom doors exist. The walls are smooth but feel like they go on forever, the paint peeling off in chunks to reveal an ugly wallpaper underneath the further he wanders down it.

It's not a nightmare, not yet, but it's still eerie.

Harry stops when it opens up in front of him to a dark room that's half-familiar, a hand pressed against the wall and the shag rug soft against his soles. Someone is slumped over next to an overstuffed sofa and there's a portrait on the wall that keeps moving, the horrified faces barely visible. 

“You shouldn't be here.” A voice says from behind him, Voldemort's hand settling into place on his shoulder. It's hard to tear his gaze away from the body but his eyes seem to glow in the dark, the dull red gleaming to life as he draws closer. Harry bites down on the first few questions, swallowing them down until he can speak without asking the obvious.

“You look tired.” He says instead.

The statement's only half true, since they don't really look like anything inside the dreams, but there's something defeated-looking in the set of Voldemort's shoulders and the heavy tread of his bare feet. He looks less human than usual, too, far taller and paler than his usual appearance. Harry distantly notes that he's missing his nose but some of the monsters his mind comes up with are more jarring than that and discards it.

“You shouldn't be here, child.” Voldemort says again. His expression barely twitches but the fingers on his shoulder tighten until they're biting into fabric and skin. Harry glances back at the body, twitching slightly with its face obscured by the dark shadows that refuse to give up its grasp on the room. He has a feeling they both know who it is.

“You're supposed to be dead.” Harry says.

Voldemort smiles at him. It's not a nice smile.

He turns them both away, back down the too-long hallway with more force than strictly necessary. There's doors lining the walls this time, stacked close enough to each other that they feel pasted on, and the peeling paint turns to stone and glass when he isn't looking. Paintings start to replace the doors after a moment or two, unfamiliar and moving as though through syrup.

They stop before an old wooden door and when Harry looks up, Voldemort appears relatively normal for their dreams. When the door swings open, it's to the sight of an empty astronomy classroom, both of them in their school robes like nothing happened. He wanders in, bypassing the desks that belong more in a primary school than Hogwarts, and settles against one of the wide windows. There's no glass holding him back from swinging up onto the stonework to sit, looking out at the stars glittering against the cloudless sky. 

The air is warm, still. A breeze ruffles their hair, lazily swirling around the classroom, and he isn't exactly sure whose dream this is anymore. Harry traces Perseus with his eyes and ignores the way the stars spin overhead like sparks. They're in his own, then. Voldemort looks rather like he wants to push him off the ledge when he glances back.

“Why aren't you dead?” Harry asks, morbidly curious. “Everyone says you've been dead since '81.”

“Don't believe everything you hear, child. I'm only slightly more dead than you are.”

Neither of them speak for a moment as the world around them flashes back into his cupboard before returning them to the tower. Voldemort sighs and crosses his arms, leaning back against a desk with a casual sort of grace. The set of his shoulders eases, though, relaxes until the only reason he can see the tension is because he's looking for it now.

“That doesn't change that you're supposed to be a lot more dead than I am.” He says. But he doesn't get shoved off his perch, so Harry is willing to count that as a win. “Are you a vampire or something?”

“I liked you better when you didn't talk back.” Voldemort grouses, morphing into a pale monstrosity that nearly fills the room before hooking his foot around the metal leg behind him. There's too many limbs between them, too little space to fill, but he's back to looking like a brooding fifth year when he blinks.

Harry grins. “I like you better when you're not trying to kill me.”

“Well,” Voldemort says, managing to shove just how unimpressed he is into that single word, “we can't all get what we want, can we?”

The world swirls around them. Night flickers into day flickers into night again but doesn't touch the unlit candles and torches around them. On the grounds below, it looks like several black-cloaked students are studying near the lake but they're too far away to see what color their ties are. It doesn't make logical sense, but it's also a dream and they're both magical anyway.

Harry looks from the sky to his hands. They're the same as when he last looked but the scars shift and change before his eyes and he has to glance away before they become unrecognizable.

“They're scared of you.” He says, soft and looking back down at his hands. Voldemort makes some sort of neutral noise behind him, the sound of fabric shifting against fabric betraying his movement. “Everyone other than the Headmaster refuses to say your name.”

Zabini paints his nails. Maybe he could try it too. But he doesn't know the first thing about it and he's far more frightened of approaching the Slytherins without a good enough reason than making a fool of himself in front of everyone. Red and gold would look tacky, he thinks, but green and silver would make Ron question his allegiance to the house. 

“Why can't we be in your Hogwarts?” He asks after another moment of silent contemplation. “I like your dormitories more.”

It also didn't change as much as Harry's did. Voldemort sighs and leans forward to smack the back of his head hard enough that he nearly tumbles off the edge. Everything spins and warps until they're sitting next to the Black Lake, utterly alone. The castle rising before them feels dark and imposing, the mess of asymmetrical towers just as intimidating as the first time he saw them.

Gathering up his robes, Voldemort settles into the grass next to him, idly spinning the ugly ring on his finger.

“You said they're scared of my name?” He says, continuing after Harry nods with a self-satisfied smile dancing across his face. “How strange. Perhaps they think the taboo hasn't worn off yet.”

He wraps an arm around his knees and traces Ursa Major into the dirt beside him. It is strange. It's stranger still that only Dumbledore doesn't bother with the You-Know-Who titles, shouldn't ten years be long enough to get over it? Harry pauses. If Voldemort is still alive, then he's probably going to keep to the regularly scheduled attempts on his life.

“You're going to try to kill me outside of the dreams, too.” He says.

Voldemort doesn't answer. It's all the answer he needs.

The stars flicker and go out, leaving the sky little more than a black void above them. Green light sneaks up behind him and Voldemort laughs without opening his mouth. Harry's not sure when he wakes up, but the fire in the dormitory's hearth is nearly out and it's still dark outside. There's no one else in the common room but there is a note that was probably tucked underneath his arm from Hermione.

He should probably go up to bed, but Harry doesn't really feel like going back to face Voldemort so soon.


End file.
